From the Ashes

by Chris Kennedy

  Hedda returned after delivering the promised drinks to the drovers. She deposited a key on the table. “Molly is getting room 214 ready. I’ll send her up with a hot kettle and some first aid supplies once you’ve had a meal.”

  Miles reached for more script, but Hedda shook her head. “Sarah asked for nothing when she helped Molly two years ago. If Sarah’s in trouble, I’m going to repay her kindness.”

  “Thank you.” Miles pocketed the key and took another drink. Hedda brought over a warm metal plate loaded with roast goat, potatoes, and carrots, covered in a healthy dollop of gravy, and a hunk of bread. The bread was a touch stale, but nothing the gravy couldn’t fix.

  “Which way you heading?” the question came from another table, where a pair of middle-aged men in long black leather coats huddled over the remains of their meals and empty mugs. Both were strapping iron under their coats. “Hawkes and I are headed into The Fort. We don’t need a third, but an additional body might discourage tomfoolery on the locals’ part.”

  Hawkes, a sharp-featured man wearing goggles nodded. “We could use the practice, at least Lefevre could, but it’d be a waste of time and ammo.”

  “I’m heading to The Fort. We were ambushed, and my wife was taken. If they came this far, they were probably headed north to The Fort,” Miles said. Finally, a stroke of luck.

  “They rolled up 27,” the first drover remarked. “Nowhere else to go but The Fort. Good luck, I hear there’s been an outbreak of cannibalism in Baron Weise’s territory.”

  “It was one guy,” another drover protested. “Maybe a family, at most.”

  “I hate fucking cannibals,” Hawkes muttered.

  “So, when should I meet you guys?” Miles asked.

  Hawkes and Lefevre exchanged a glance. “Be here at 0700, or we leave without you,” Lefevre said. Hawkes sighed. “If he is chasing someone, we need to roll out as early as possible,” Lefevre said to Hawkes.

  * * *

  “It’s late to be rattling my door,” Matilda protested, blinking sleep-bleary eyes at Troy. Her eyes widened when they fell on the young medic. “Oh, this is a pretty little bird. The baron will be most pleased.”

  “She’s a medic, not a bed warmer,” Troy countered. “If we’re lucky, the boss will never lay eyes on her. Get her settled and try to keep her out of the boss’ sight.”

  “Should I wake The Roach and have her imprinted?” Matilda asked, eyeing the young woman.

  “I’d prefer not to risk The Roach scrambling her brains,” Troy replied. The Roach had been an imprint assistant before The Fall. Baron Harkness had been a middle-level manager in Obsidian. Either the local office didn’t rate a nuke, or the bird was shot down. Either way, The Fort survived, as did Harkness. “If she behaves, in a couple of days, we’ll set her up in the old doc’s office.”

  Matilda cupped the woman’s chin. “Such a shame, but I’ll do as you ask.”

  Troy didn’t bother to point out he wasn’t asking. He left the medic with Matilda and dismissed his guards. There was no reason for them to shadow him in the Power Building, the tallest tower in The Fort. No one would try anything in the heart of Baron Harkness’ headquarters. Once the guards vanished into an elevator, Troy headed for the stairs.

  Troy descended into the concrete bowels of the tower. Sparse lighting made the plain corridor barely navigable—only every third fixture was illuminated, with a low power bulb to boot. Troy knew it was to conserve electricity in the event they were forced to rely on batteries, but it didn’t lessen the creepiness. He reached his destination, an unmarked steel door.

  The room beyond called to mind images of a mad scientist’s laboratory crossed with an electronics scrapyard. Components and tools cluttered every surface, in some places stacked on top of each other. A single dim bulb glowed above the center of the room. The Roach hunched in front of a pair of monitors, scrolling lines of code reflected in his glasses.

  “Is it finished?” Troy asked when The Roach didn’t acknowledge him.

  The small, thin man squinted through thick glasses and ran a hand through his greasy blond hair. Hygiene wasn’t a priority for The Roach. “What? Oh! Yes! I have it right here.” The Roach rifled through a pile of electronics scattered around his workstation. He held up a universal data port drive the size of his thumb. “Here we go. A work of art, if I say so myself.”

  “You said the same thing about Docile 1.0.” Troy threaded his way through the maze of furniture and electronics. “The girl loaded with the ‘print laid there like a dead fish. The boss broke her jaw when she wouldn’t…participate.”

  The Roach waved his hand dismissively. “There are always bugs in the first iteration of software. Most of this imprint is copied from one of the best profiles I could find, and we already know my stimulus-based trigger routine works. Load this into the subject, and you’ll get the desired results.”

  “I hope so, for all our sakes.” Troy pocketed the UDP drive.

  * * *

  “Two minutes and we would have left without you,” Hawkes said. The sharp-faced man leaned against a petrol-burning sedan. Petrol burners were uncommon among the Swiss, even if only a portion of them objected for religious reasons. Gasoline was scarce and expensive.

  “Don’t listen to him,” Lefevre remarked, approaching from the inn with a large duffel. “I would have given you at least three minutes. Travelling light?”

  “My pack was in the wagon,” Miles replied. He’d washed his clothes the night before and hung them under the heat exchanger. They were still damp but, at least, they were no longer caked in mud.

  “How’s the ankle?” Lefevre asked as he chucked the duffel into the trunk. Both men carried slung rifles in addition to the pistols under their coats.

  “It’s subsided to a dull ache.” Miles took after his father and healed fast. He’d slept with his foot elevated and downed a couple of aspirin with his breakfast. “If I had to walk to The Fort, I’d be limping by the time I reached Rudisill Gate. Assuming I made it that far.”

  The Barrens surrounded The Fort. It was a swath of mostly abandoned buildings, no longer needed when most of the population died off and untenable to hold against roaming brigand gangs and more violence-minded scavengers. Only the tough, the stubborn, or the desperate lived in the Barrens. Lone travelers risked their lives passing through.

  “Let’s hit the road,” Lefevre said, climbing behind the wheel. Miles clambered into the back seat, and Hawkes sat in front of him. The horizon glowed with false dawn; it was still three-quarters of an hour until sunrise.

  The car rumbled to life, and a pair of bright lights pierced the darkness. Lefevre flipped a switch and the headlights dimmed and turned red. Miles peered at the dashboard. In the middle of the console, a panel of toggle switches had replaced the entertainment system.

  “After-market modifications,” Hawkes remarked, noticing Miles’ interest. “Too much was controlled by the damned computers, so it was easier to hardwire our changes.”

  Miles nodded as though he understood and sat back as Lefevre set the car in motion. He had some childhood memories of cars pre-Fall. The vehicles were full of glowing displays and electronic voices. Half of the indicators in this car remained dark, and no voices delivered notifications or instructions.

  Two men rolled aside a large metal gate as the car approached. One waved as the car passed through onto the crumbling road. Lefevre swung north on Highway 27. The road’s surface was pocked from neglect, forcing the driver to navigate carefully, and where potholes couldn’t be avoided, Lefevre traversed them slowly.

  “Kid, do you know how to use that relic on your back?” Hawkes asked.

  “It’s only 5 years old. An ironmonger made it.” His father gave him the hossleg when Miles joined the Swiss Guard. “It’s not as fancy as your rifles, but it’s tough and our people can make the ammo for it.”

  “All well and good, but you didn’t answer the question, kid,” Lefevre remarked.

  “I’m not a s
niper, but I have the third best score on our training course.” Miles resisted the urge to bristle at the kid remark. The men were doing him a favor.

  “Who has the best?” Hawkes asked.

  “My father. He taught me everything I know about fighting.”

  Hawkes and Lefevre exchanged a glance. “I’m guessing he was a company man?” Lefevre asked. “Watch the burnt-out hulk on the right.”

  “I see it,” Hawkes said.

  “Yeah, he was a corporate Specialist before The Fall. You guys were Obsidian?” Miles became nervous. He shouldn’t have brought up his father. The War was a long-time ago, but if these guys were imprinted Agents, they might be programmed to hold a grudge.

  “What gave it away, the all-black get ups?” Lefevre asked. “Relax kid, we don’t care if your old man was Teledyne. Our management chain is toast, so we’re ronin now. We’re seeking jobs to keep food in our belly and gas in the tank.”

  They rolled past the razed remains of neighborhoods. Houses for blocks on either side of the road had been burned to the ground. This made it harder for bandits to ambush travelers or for hostiles to sneak up on the perimeter gate. The wall marking the official boundary of The Fort stretched ahead. Near the gate, cinderblocks and sheets of corrugated metal topped by barbed wire protected the perimeter. The farther one got from the gate, the more haphazard the construction became. The barrier wasn’t designed to keep out an individual as much as to delay marauders long enough for the residents to muster a defense.

  “What are you going to do once you get inside?” Lefevre asked, pulling the car into the queue in front of the gate. A half dozen vehicles awaited entry, mostly independent farmer and trader wagons plus the single petrol bus that ran the route between the ruins of Indianapolis and The Fort.

  “Find the rest of the caravan. They’ll want to know what happened, and they may be able to convince the warlords it would be in their best interest to help us find my wife and the bandits.” As much as he wanted to immediately search for Sarah, it was the right play. “I figure they’ll still be at Lawton Market.”

  “We’ll take you as far as Main St.,” Lefevre said, eyeing the slow procession ahead. “We’re heading to Weise’s barony.”

  “We are?” Hawkes asked. “Kolner has a better grip on her territory.”

  “If Weise has a cannibal problem, our services will be in higher demand,” Lefevre countered. “Besides, killing cannibals always brings a smile to my face.”

  “I hate cannibals. Fine, Weise it is,” Hawkes relented.

  It would put Miles within half a mile of his destination. “I appreciate it. You guys saved me several hours. Can I give you something for your help?”

  Again, the pair exchanged looks, wordlessly communicating. Finally, Hawkes shook his head. “We’re doing you a favor, kid. No obligation.”

  They reached the head of the line, where six guards gave each vehicle a cursory inspection and collected the entrance tax. All were armed, but the real threat was the machine gun emplacement atop the wall to the left of the gate. Another one covered the opposite side, facing into The Fort. Anyone ramming their way through the gate would be riddled with heavy caliber bullets, coming and going.

  Lefevre rolled down the window as one of the guards approached. “How you paying?” the guard asked without preamble. “Bullets, booze, script…”

  “How much script?” Miles asked. Hawkes frowned under his goggles but said nothing.

  “Three of you, six dimes.”

  Miles fished out a strip worth ten dimes and passed it to Lefevre. Lefevre handed it to the guard, who pocketed it and waved them through. Miles bit back a protest—haggling for his change would have held them up, especially if the guards demanded to give the car a thorough inspection.

  “Kid, you shouldn’t throw script around so readily,” Hawkes remarked. “It’ll mark you as a target.”

  Hawkes was right. “I brought some extra with me to buy Sarah something nice. The best use for it, now, is anything that gets me closer to finding her.”

  Past the perimeter, the road led to the heart of The Fort. Miles scanned the parking-lots-turned-caravan-yards on either side of the road for the Swiss convoy or the missing wagon. He didn’t expect to see the former, as the Swiss traded in the market near the junction of the three baronies, but it would have been foolish not to check. Past the parking lots were a mix of homes, many dilapidated, the hulk of an old high school, and parks turned gardens. Most commercial buildings were abandoned and decaying. As residential neighborhoods gave way to light industry, the bulk of the buildings were vacant. The few still in use were obvious from their guards and fences.

  A handful of scrapers rose ahead. They didn’t reach the dizzying heights of the scrapers in the big cities, but it didn’t matter how tall a building was if it was a nuked wreck.

  “The tallest one on the left is Baron Harkness’ headquarters,” Hawkes said. “I’ve heard he’s been getting erratic, but your people might want to start there since any stolen wagon would have rolled through his domain.”

  A couple of blocks later, Lefevre pulled the car to the curb. “Good luck, kid.”

  “Thanks, again.” Miles set a portion of his script on the back seat as he opened the door. Even though the men hadn’t wanted payment, Miles felt obliged to give them something.

  Miles watched as the car rumbled away, turning east on Main Street. This early in the morning, traffic was light. As Miles checked the road before crossing, he spotted a familiar wagon two blocks west and heading south.

  Miles cut across the courthouse yard, the largest patch of open ground not dedicated to agriculture he’d seen in The Fort. The wagon disappeared, continuing south, now a block and a half west. Miles dashed the half block and turned south. Going straight south would take him past the baron’s scraper. Best to avoid drawing attention. He ran down a block of alleyways, and his ankle voiced its displeasure.

  Panic welled when Miles reached the next corner and he didn’t see the wagon continuing south. He almost missed it further west as the rear disappeared into an old parking structure. Miles steadied his breathing and marched west. No one seemed to care why an armed man had dashed three blocks. Good.

  Miles slowed his pace as he reached the entrance to the parking garage. Only a few stripped carcasses of automobiles remained. There were so few cars in use, this was now a place to get out of the sun or rain, or away from prying eyes.

  A group of men inside gathered around the wagon. Miles spotted half a dozen before he averted his gaze and feigned disinterest. He’d spent enough time in markets to recognize the cadence of haggling, even if he couldn’t make out the words. At the corner of the concrete structure, Miles slipped between the wagon and the adjacent building.

  Miles crept up until the wagon obscured him from most of the men. Hopefully they would all be engrossed in the negotiation. He launched himself toward the edge of the concrete façade with his good leg and pulled himself over the top of the wall, through a gap, and into the structure.

  Miles clenched his teeth and held his breath as he landed. A burned wreck blocked his view, so he snuck forward. He could see one of the men, but he was facing the rest.

  “It’s a good price. Heck, it’s a bargain,” one of the men said.

  “This is a Swiss wagon. If Harkness finds someone poaching from the Swiss confederation, it’ll be their hide.” The other man paused. “It’s too risky for what you’re asking.”

  “You don’t need to sweat it. My cousin is the baron’s right-hand man. Harkness bought the Swiss bitch we nabbed with the wagon. As long as you keep it on the down-low, it’s all good.”

  “Where is she?” Miles flipped the safety off his hossleg and sidestepped so he could cover the group.

  “What the fuck?” the pock-faced man who claimed to be a cousin yelped. Several of the men reached for weapons.

  “First one to draw, gets shot,” Miles snapped, leveling his gun at the cousin. “Where’s the medic who was
with this wagon?”

  “I sold the pretty little bitch to Harkness, boy.” The man’s grin was as marred as his skin. “It’s too late now. He’s probably mounting the little filly as we speak. I wanted a piece, but Harkness prefers his meat fresh. Now, it’s six of us and one of you. How do you think you’re walking away from this? Put down your gun, and I’ll think about letting you—”

  “Gehen wir!” Miles shouted—let’s go in the Germanic language common among the Swiss Amish. The horses surged forward, forcing the men in their path to scramble out of the way.

  Miles swung his hossleg toward the man furthest to his left. He was clear of the chaos induced by the horses and had his pistol free of its holster. The magnum round shattered the man’s sternum as it punched into his chest.

  Miles levered his gun on the move. His second shot was hasty and caught the next target high in the left side of his chest. The man spun back and fell, his shot going wild. The gunfire spooked the horses, and with no drover at the reins, they pulled the wagon away from the noise, herding two of the men with them.

  Pock-face drew his pistol, but Miles slammed the butt of his weapon into the pale man’s wrist. The pistol clattered to the concrete as Miles twirled the hossleg and smacked Pock-face in the head with the octangular barrel.

  The fourth man aimed a gun similar to Miles’, but Pock-face was in the way. Miles crouched as Pock-faced crumpled, and he fired over the collapsing man. Headshot. Miles dove forward and rolled as two guns popped. Though they were smaller caliber, he didn’t want to be on the receiving end.

  “Halten!” Miles hoped the command would keep the horses from fleeing into the street. The two remaining men scrambled for the cover of a derelict car. Click-clack, Miles levered the hossleg and shot one in the thigh as the man dove behind the relic.

  Pock-faced moaned and moved. Miles kicked away the man’s pistol and stepped on his back. “Do something stupid, and I will cave your skull in.” How long did he have before the firefight attracted attention? “You, behind the car. You want to walk out of—”